


Fear To Tread

by annamatopia



Category: Beauty and Rage, Lucifer (TV), Original Work
Genre: Angels - Freeform, Angst, Chloe/Dan (background), Explosions, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer - Freeform, Minor Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, The Devil Made Them Do It, Whump, bad forensic science, dodgy case fic, hurt!Lucifer, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: Chloe had a Very Bad Feeling about the case right from the start, and there are some things even the lord of hell fears to tread.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent thing I have written in my entire life, not counting the angels-as-velociraptors fic that's gonna emerge at some point. Just gonna say this up front, it's literally a fanfic crossover with my own work of fiction, and I feel absolutely no shame. And just in case you wanna read the original fiction Lucifer is crossed with, you can check it out [here.](http://beautyandrageseries.wordpress.com) (AKA pls check it out we are shameless and desperately want readers.)
> 
> Any grammar/spelling mistakes are entirely my fault, as a great deal of commas were abused in the writing of this fic.

Act I

 

The crime scene is unbelievably chaotic. Not so much blood, which she’s seen and dealt with before, but more just. Chaos. Like a tornado blew through, like the hurricane that becomes Trixie’s room when Chloe doesn’t enforce a weekly cleaning session. Every window is shattered with the glass blown to the inside, ever mirror smashed, every dish and plate strewn liberally across the combined kitchen and living area. In fact, the murder and mayhem seems to be directly centered around the body. Interesting.

Chloe crouches down. White male, approximately six feet tall, brown hair, black suit, briefcase just a few feet away. Wallet in his pocket identifies him as Thomas Bradley, and a quick search places him as a professor of philosophy at UCLA. Aside from small cuts and bruises with bits of glass and ceramic stuck into them, there seems to be no visible cause of death. 

“Hey, you said we had a suspect?” she calls over to Officer Daniels. Daniels scurries over, looking nervous.

“Yeah, he’s out on the balcony.” He waves at the now-inert sliding glass door, and Chloe catches a glimpse of Dan rubbing his face and a tall, blonde man in handcuffs. “They haven’t gotten much out of him. He’s been, uh, super uncooperative.” 

“I’ll bet,” Chloe mutters. She carefully picks her way through the glass and joins Dan out on the balcony.

“Thank god, you’ve arrived,” Dan says. He grabs her arm and hisses in her ear, “He’s creeping me the hell out. Be careful, okay? Maybe get your weird-ass partner in here, let them creep on each other.” He shoves a notepad into her hands and shoves his way past to inside.

Chloe stares at Dan’s retreating back. For Dan to suggest she call Lucifer, before even looking at other solutions, there’s got to be something more going on here. She turns to the suspect. “So--” She glances down at the notebook. No name. “Sir, you were found standing over the body covered in blood.”

“In my defense, I was mostly comatose at the time,” the man offers. He smiles down at her and yes, Chloe sees what Dean means. Unsettling.

“I’ve done a lot of things in my time,” the man continues, “but ironically, I am the innocent party in this case.” He glances dispassionately towards the body. “Though of course you must find someone upon whom to lay the blame.”

Something about the man’s diction and attitude puts Chloe on edge and, at the same time, sounds uncomfortably familiar. She’s already dialing Lucifer’s number as she asks, “And can you tell us your name?”

The man grins and it is at some level terrifying. He opens his mouth--

“Detective!” says Lucifer on the other end of the phone after one ring.

“--Blake.”

“First name or last name?” Chloe asks, tucking the phone against her shoulder and juggling paper and notepad with the other.

He shrugs.

Lucifer is making indecipherable, impatient noises on the other end of the line.

Well, shit.

#

Lucifer had arrived at the station less than ten minutes after the words “so we have a weirdo at the crime scene” left her mouth and before Chloe got there herself. They’ve all moved to an interrogation room, Blake on one side of the table and Chloe on the other, with Lucifer standing directly behind her. Blake is in handcuffs, because even if he had no part in Bradley’s death he was still at the crime scene, and is peering intensely across the table. Lucifer is attempting murder-by-glare. They haven’t said a single word.

Chloe doesn’t want to break the silence.

Every time she looks at Blake, her skin crawls and there’s an insatiable itch up her spine that makes her shudder. And Lucifer’s not doing his freaky “what do you desire” thing.

Someone’s got to make a move, so she clears her throat. “So, Mr--Blake? Can you tell us everything about what happened, starting from when you arrived at the crime scene?”

Blake affects an expression of regret. “I’m afraid I have no memory of how I came to be in that house.” He brings up his cuffed hands and scrubs at his face. “The last thing I remember is being out for a walk and tripping over a crack in the asphalt. Next thing I know, I’m being poked and prodded and checked for a pulse.” He looks up and smiles wryly. “I’m afraid I gave the officers quite a scare when I sat up without any warning.”

She shuffles her papers. “Yeah, they get that way sometimes.”

Now that Chloe’s in her element and less on edge from the environment of an active crime scene, she can take a moment to look Blake over. He’s wearing dingy clothing, generic pants and a sweatshirt that looks like it’s seen better days. His long, blonde hair is partially pulled back into a loose ponytail with a stretched out hair tie, and he has just the shadow of light facial hair. Honestly, Chloe thinks, he belongs in some kind of hispter band--not at the scene of a crime.

The details of that scene are this:

According to the neighbors, no noise all night. Around eight this morning, all of the windows in the house spontaneously explode. Aforementioned neighbors freak and call the police--a smart move on their part, one Chloe appreciates. Squad cars arrive a quarter of an hour later and find Blake unconscious in the middle of the wreckage. He awakes within minutes of their arrival. Neighbors report no other noise or disturbances between the explosion and the police. Perplexing.

She continues the interrogation, trying to get _something_ out of Blake. He seems very apologetic, genuinely upset over having woken up in the midst of a crime scene next to a body, and completely compliant with all her lines of questioning. Perhaps her spidey-sense was tingling for nothing. (Trixie is going through a spiderman phase.)

To her great surprise, not once does Lucifer step forward to do his mind voodoo. The few times she glances back at him, he is stiff and stoic. She wonders if he had another fight with Maze over Amenadiel.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she tells Blake, and she grabs Lucifer by the arm and drags him out of the interrogation room.

When they’re out in the hall, she hisses, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His eyes are dark as he paces back and forth, a few steps at a time. “I don’t like him. He’s... strange.”

“Yes he is, but you still have to be polite,” Chloe says. 

Lucifer snorts in derision. “He’s suspicious. He _has_ to be guilty.”

Chloe sighs. Almost every time he’s one hundred percent insisted that a suspect is Guilty, he’s been wrong. “Well, we’ll just see, won’t we? By now someone should have dug up more info on Bradley. We can look through there for anyone with an actual motive.” 

Before she can turn away entirely, he grabs her by the shoulder. “Detective--”

She stops and _looks_ at him. His eyes are wide, breathing just on the cusp of erratic, and his grip is strong. Chloe steps towards him. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Something personal? You sure you’re not projecting on the case, _again_?”

“I--” He makes a noise low in his throat. “Please, Chloe, promise me you’ll be careful.”

He never calls her Chloe; it’s always “detective”. Always. This must be important to him. And since he so rarely shows such sincerity in anything, let alone something related to a case, she replies, just as somber, “Of course.” She lays her other hand on his outstretched arm. “I’ll be careful, alright? I can take care of myself.”

His coughing fit sounds suspiciously like “Malcolm”, but she glares at him until he shuts up on the way to her desk to check out what personal information has been dug up about their victim.

\--

Someone has, in fact, done enough research since Chloe began the interrogation to have left a decently thick file folder on her desk. She settles into her chair and swivels back and forth as she leafs through the file. Thomas Bradley, philosophy professor, so on and so forth. She flips forward to look for anything suspicious.

Sure enough, halfway through the brief section on personal relationships, Chloe finds information on Bradley’s ex-girlfriend, Hannah Pierce. A brief search through the database reveals a restraining order filed by Bradley two months ago against Hannah--after they broke up, she had apparently sent death threats via email and physical mail. She works at a local grocery store and lives in the neighborhood next to Bradley’s. Chloe can’t figure out how she could’ve caused the explosion, but it’s clear after just a few moments that Hannah almost definitely has a motive.

Meanwhile, despite all evidence to the contrary, Lucifer is still arguing in favor of Blake’s certain “culpability.” He hasn’t stopped talking the entire time Chloe has been reading the file.

“Besides,” Lucifer continues cheerily, “his outfit is truly an offense to the realm of fashion.” He adjusts the lapels of his suit that probably cost more than Chloe’s monthly salary. “Obviously that means he’s guilty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure thing, Sherlock. Let’s go round up a suspect.” Blake could wait in either interrogation or a holding cell; it wouldn’t hurt him.

They head for the exit but don’t get very far before one of the lab flunkies gets in their way. “Detective Decker? The results for the tox screen you requested came in. I think you’d better take a look at them.”

He hands her a chart of results. Years of experience have taught Chloe the methods of sanning the Science for the Relevant Details, and it takes her only a moment to locate the official cause of death.

“Anticoagulants? Coumatetralyl?” She scans the rest of the paper. “Rodenticide? He was poisoned?”

“Rat poison,” the flunkie confirms.

Chloe thinks. The girlfriend--Hannah--works at a grocery store, which almost certainly sells generic rat poison. If Bradley ever left his house unlocked or Hannah still had a key, it would’ve been no problem for her to sneak in and administer the poison to whatever meal Bradley was planning on eating.

Motive, means, and opportunity. Good enough for me, she decides, and then she and Lucifer are off in a whirlwind of crime-solving excitement.

The ex-girlfriend doesn’t seem particularly pleased to see them; together, Chloe and Lucifer bring Hannah in for questioning. 

Chloe remembers at the last minute to ask Hannah about the cause of the explosion and even makes a note in the file, but the post-it somehow makes its way to the bottom. She has forgotten it entirely by the time Lucifer asks _what do you desire_ and Hannah caves and tearfully signs her confession within five minutes. Chloe’s not the least bit surprised.

Apparently, Bradley had cheated on her with a fellow professor. She flipped out, broke up with him as soon as she discovered the affair, and proceeded to send those death threats. Bam, restraining order. Bam, escalation to murder.

Chloe cradles her head on her arms at her desk afterwards. Sometimes, she really hates humanity. Why go to so much trouble to spread hate and pain? Why the obsession with getting even? At least retribution and punishment, as Lucifer would put it, are easy motives to understand. It’s the nonsensical violence that gets her every time.

At just the moment she contemplates falling asleep, Lucifer swans up to her desk, visible out of the corner of the eye that isn’t drooping closed. “Why so maudlin, detective?”

She sits up and massages her temples. “Just despairing over humanity,” she sighs.

“Ahh, my favorite activity.” Lucifer settles on the edge of her desk and gently pats her hair. “You humans, always so quick to cause each other harm. And blame it on me,” he adds as an afterthought.

Chloe’s so used to his claims of being the actual, literal devil that they basically go in one ear and right out the other, just like his stupid puns. “Still. Good work today. We kept an innocent man from being locked up for murder and found the real killer. And--” she glanced at her watch. “--It’s almost time to pick up Trixie.

“Yes, well,” Lucifer says when she compliments him, tone clearly pleased, “I’m glad to see the right person being punished.” But his face says something entirely different, and Chloe knows he’s not going to drop it. Then he’s clearly replaying her words in his head because he grimaces. “I don’t suppose you expect me to tag along.”

She shrugs as nonchalantly as she can. “Not if you don’t want to, but I could use the company.”

She could tell her subtle finagling did its job as she watched him waver on the decision. “Oh, alright,” he grumbles at last. “But don’t expect me to-- _hug_ her, or entertain her in the car. She’s quite old enough to do that on her own.”

\--

The Detect--Chloe, Lucifer reminds himself--somehow talks him into joining her on the trip to pick up Trixie from school.

“Dan’s on a stake-out,” Chloe explains, “and the babysitter’s in finals all afternoon. She’s so stressed I feel bad asking her, and everyone at the station loves Trixie. She won’t get into much trouble just for a little while.” She gives Lucifer an appraising look. “Especially if you keep an eye on her.”

Lucifer grimaces. Spending the afternoon minding Chloe’s bothersome offspring was not what he’d had in mind that morning when Chloe had called him for “urgent help” with a case. He sighs deeply. “Alright, fine. I’ll handle the little miscreant until you’re done with your boring paperwork.”

Chloe shoots him an exasperated look. “Watch it, that’s my kid you’re talking about. And it might be boring, but papers and forms are an essential part of detective work. You’re lucky I fill all yours out for you.”

He thinks about protesting but decides she might make him do the boring busywork himself, and he doesn’t say a word.

When they arrive, Trixie is already waiting on the sidewalk and takes only a moment to clamber into the back seat. She gasps and bounces a little. “Lucifer!”

“What, no hi for Mommy?” Chloe says, turning and grinning at the obnoxious tiny human.

Lucifer reluctantly twists around and arranges his face into something resembling a smile. “Hello, small child.”

Trixie waves. “Are we going back home? Is Lucifer going to stay with us? Are we going to the police station? Is Daddy coming for dinner tonight?”

Lucifer has no earthly idea where to begin with answering Trixie’s questions, but Chloe seems to have anticipated such an outburst and calmly answers each question in order. No, yes, no, no. 

He smirks. What a shame Dan can’t make it to Taco Tuesday again. Maybe Lucifer could talk Trixie into inviting him in such a way that Chloe couldn’t possibly say no.

The precinct is surprisingly quiet when they arrive, though that ends as soon as Trixie makes herself known to the entire station with a ear-piercing “hello!” Soon she’s surrounded by every officer not working on something important--and a few, Lucifer thinks, who are indeed most likely in the middle of time-sensitive cases.

Chloe slips away just after the ruckus starts, leaving Lucifer to corral her overenthusiastic child. Trixie revels in the attention rained on her by the entirety of the officers on duty. Clearly, this is not the first time both the babysitter and Dan have been unavailable after school during Chloe’s shift.

He’s just feeling satisfied at the proper amount of praise given to Trixie when someone sidles up next to him. Lucifer glances down and immediately scowls. “What are _you_ doing out of your hole in the ground?”

Blake looks away shyly. “I’ve been cleared of all charges, and they’ve just finished making everything official. I’m free to go.”

Just then, Trixie breaks free of her gaggle of worshippers and careens into Lucifer’s thousand dollar Armani slacks. “Lucifer! Guess what! I might get a ride in an actual official police car!” Lucifer suspects this is not the first time she will have ridden in an ‘actual official police car’, but he finds himself unwilling to crush her excitement.

“Yes, excellent,” he says. He tries in vain to peel her off his leg.

“Who’re _you_?” Trixie asks while he’s distracted.

Lucifer looks up to see Blake kneeling down in front of Trixie. “Well, hi there,” Blake says, a genial smile on his lips. “I’m Blake. What’s your name?”

“I’m Tri--” Trixie begins, but Lucifer cuts her off by swiftly lifting her into his arms, much to her delight.

“She’s none of your business,” Lucifer growls at him. So as not to alarm Trixie, he mouths as clearly as he can, ‘back off.’

Blake rises from his crouch and frowns. He says quietly, innocently, “I only meant to be polite.”

Lucifer says, “You can be polite somewhere else.”

They engage in a ten minute stand-off in which Blake continues to appear disreputable, Lucifer glares, and Trixie clings to his neck and chatters away about that week’s craft projects and “stupid math problems!” directly in his ear. But he can’t let go of her, not with Blake’s gaze trained on them in a way that makes Lucifer distinctly uncomfortable.

Chloe comes up behind him right as Lucifer is considering whether he can get away with homicide in the middle of a room filled with armed officers.

“I thought you said no hugs,” Chloe whispers to him.

Lucifer coughs. “Obviously I didn’t--she _wheedled_ me, the devious urchin--”

And then Trixie goes and rats on him by announcing, “He did it all by himself.” She sounds proud.

Chloe smiles and pats her daughter’s hand. She reaches out and they transfer Trixie, who reluctantly clutches at Lucifer until he unwinds her arms from around his neck.

“Traitor,” he hisses at her. She grins back at him.

“So,” Chloe is saying, “I hear you’ve been checked out of custody?”

“Cleared of all charges!” Blake announces. His eyes are watering ever-so-slightly as he reaches out to shake Chloe’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough for proving my innocence. How can I ever repay you?”

Lucifer sees right through his act. _You can repay her by leaving immediately_ , he thinks. Blake is _too_ sincere, too... vanilla, and makes Lucifer’s skin itch just under the surface. Like the sluggish drag of time immediately before Amenadiel’s anger or the ozone before a powerful storm.

\--

Lucifer’s doing his alpha-male posturing again. Chloe exhales. She wishes he wouldn’t do that all the time, act like he’s her protector and she can’t take care of herself. Some times were alright, though. Right now, for instance: he is just the right side of being an asshole to someone she feels ambivalent about while also papa-bearing over her daughter. So perhaps this time he could be excused.

“Hi monkey,” she murmurs to Trixie. “Did you have a good time?”

Trixie nods vigorously. “Yeah, it was great!” She lowers her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “I got to talk to everyone and I might get to ride in a police car if you say it’s okay and then I got to hug Lucifer and he picked me up and I got to talk about school and he listened, and it was awesome.” She nuzzles her nose into Chloe’s shoulder. Trixie really is too old to be picked up like this, Chloe thinks, but Lucifer had started it and she damn well wouldn’t finish it.

She hefts Trixie up into a better grip. “I’m glad. Daddy has to work tonight, so if you want, maybe Lucifer could come to--”

“Taco Tuesday,” Trixie whispers excitedly.

Chloe sees Lucifer twitch beside her, but he otherwise gives no indication of hearing the invitation, even though he had to have heard it.

Instead, he’s shifting forward into a stance she knows all too well.

“Now that you’ve been let off the hook, what _do_ you want, Blake?” Lucifer clasps his hands behind his back and leans in close. Chloe finds no trace of his usual glee that always accompanies his ‘these are not the droids you’re looking for’ mojo. “What do you _desire_ most in this world that you would do anything to get?”

Blake stares at Lucifer. His jaw goes slack; his features relax and shoulders slump. But his eyes are still sharp and focused. Not at all like the general reaction to the desire voodoo.

“I want to go home,” he murmurs. His voice is steady and balanced.

Chloe knows Blake is innocent, at least of the crime of murder, but she is beginning to see why Lucifer warned her to be careful.

Drawing back, Lucifer furrows his brows. He almost looks confused.

Blake steps forward and places one hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. It creases the suit. “It must be so difficult for you, being so uptight all the time,” he says. Chloe can almost feel a humming in the air, something palpable. “Tell me, _Lucifer_ , what is it you are looking for, hmm?”

Lucifer shifts and his hands are trembling. He opens his mouth--

“Lucifer,” Chloe says loudly. He jerks back and gapes at her, eyes glassy. “I need to take Trixie home. Want to walk us out to the parking lot?” She rubs Trixie’s back; she’s getting heavy, but Chloe doesn’t want to put her down.

“I--yes, I’ll do that.” Lucifer shoves past her towards the elevator.

Chloe grimaces at Blake. “Sorry about that, he can get weird sometimes. It’s nice to meet you, even if we started out on the wrong foot.” She extends a hand once more, for civility’s sake, and Blake takes it. “Good luck.”

Blake’s shark-like grin sends a thrill up her spine--and not the good kind. She clutches Trixie tighter with her other arm. “Thank you, detective. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” And he releases her to Lucifer’s hurried foot-tapping in front of the elevator doors.

If she concentrates, she can feel a tingle crawling up her arm from where they shook hands.

 

 

Act II

 

Lucifer walks Chloe and Trixie out to the car and sees them safely off before climbing into his own car. The top is down, and he should feel free and alight with wind and speed, but he can’t stop the knotting in his stomach. If he stops moving, nausea creeps up.

So he drives, and drives, and drives until he has barely enough gas in the car to make it back to Lux. It is late; he knows he has missed Taco Tuesday. Trixie will be disappointed. Chloe perhaps even more so, knowing he shunned an invitation not often extended. Well, he can make it up to them some other time, when he can walk a straight line and think coherently.

Maze is behind the bar cleaning glasses when he stumbles in. She raises an eyebrow. “Rough day at the office?” She still does not approve of his partnership with Chloe, but she now understands what it means to him. 

“Something like that,” Lucifer grunts. He snatches the glass of expensively aged whiskey that Maze has poured for him and knocks it back.

She huffs. “That’s meant to be savored, you know.”

“It’s been a long day.” He bows his head over the bar for just a moment to collect himself. Today is Tuesday, obviously, taco Tuesday, so they will not be opening the club. He can breathe a little easier knowing he won’t have to fake a smile tonight. “Maze, don’t let anyone up. I don’t want company tonight.” Except Chloe. Maybe. He gives her a significant look that he hopes conveys his meaning.

She nods once, and he makes his way up to the penthouse. He takes the stairs. The repetitive movements help clear his mind; he can’t stop thinking about Blake. The feigned, unsettling sincerity. The way he didn’t seem to be fully affected by Lucifer’s power, the same as Chloe. He wonders if that means this man also has control over his mortality.

No--he can’t think about that. Not now, not so soon after Malcolm and Father and hell. He breathes deeply and pauses on the stairs, closing his eyes. The quiet plea for inner peace is not a prayer. Anything but--

Belatedly, he realizes that no one had ever resolved the issue of the explosion, the aftermath of which Blake had been found. He suffers a brief moment of panic just before he reaches the penthouse entrance. Had Blake not appeared in the midst of the havoc? How could any of them have missed it?

He stumbles through the door, blindly making his way to the long wall of glasses and bottles. What he really needs is--

“Ahh, I was wondering when you would arrive,” a familiar voice says.

He freezes in place. _No_. He turns, slowly, and there on the sofa adjacent to the bar wall sits Blake, looking like he belongs there. “How the hell did you get up here?” he hisses.

The man shrugs. “I snuck in, obviously. I’m afraid your bartender wasn’t paying much attention.”

Lucifer has never known Maze to be anything less than deadly-focused on her surroundings at all times. “I don’t think so.” He grips the bar stool behind him so tightly the metal warps. “How did you really get here.”

“Don’t you think some things should stay mysteries?” Blake’s smile curves gruesome on his lips. “So, _Lucifer Morningstar_ , care to explain how you came to have my name?”

Lucifer stares at him. “ _Your_ name?” He laughs and turns, pours himself a double shot of tequila. He deserves a little buzz after the day he’s had. “Your name. I thought your name was _Blake_ ,” he sneers.

Blake, or whoever he truly is, stretches long and languid over the sofa. “My identity isn’t the issue here. I’m more concerned with you.” He drapes an arm across the back. Looks far too comfortable for someone who is invading another’s home.

Chloe is not here, Lucifer reminds himself, and so there is nothing this stranger--Blake, if that’s even close to who he truly is--can do to him. His inner turmoil eases somewhat. With a careful, even breath he cocks a smile and cants his head. “What’s there to be concerned about?” he says, nonchalant. “I’m the devil. Yes, darling, you’ve met the one and only Lucifer, you can get your autograph and go home.”

“I’m not here for an autograph.” Blake stands. He advances on Lucifer, jaunty, confident, and Lucifer shifts himself to deflect a weak human’s attempt at fisticuffs.

He doesn’t expect the single palm thrust to his chest that sends him into the bar counter with a sickening _crack_.

Lucifer falls, stunned, sliding down the wooden base now splintered at his back. He was flung hard enough to fracture the marble above him which has dusted chips into his face and hair.

Blake must be an angel, he thinks. A fucking angel sent to kill him where Amenadiel failed.

Well, Lucifer is not going to take this lying down.

He scrambles halfway up and tackles Blake at the knees. Blake staggers backwards; Lucifer chops the edge of his hand against Blake’s knees and brings him down to the floor.

Every dirty trick he ever learned in battle comes back to him now, and Lucifer fights with all abandon. Furniture. Whiskey bottles, scotch canters, Maze’s knives--nothing is safe, everything is a weapon. Blake easily counters every physical blow and gives more besides. They throw each other into walls and slam to the floor with grips on throats and wrists. The place looks like a war zone, and Lucifer almost cannot keep up.

It is around the time that glasses and bottles begin to pummel him on their own that Lucifer realizes Blake cannot be an ordinary angel. Though they bounce off his skin and shatter to the floor, they distract Lucifer long enough for Blake to grab hold and hurl him entirely across the room with strength unlike anything Lucifer has felt before.

Blake throws him into one of the columns; this time, he _feels_ the pain and the blood oozing down his face. He groans, tries to get up, struggles to draw breath into his lungs. Nothing, he can’t move, can’t--

The elevator dings. Chloe emerges with a bounce in her step. “Lucifer? Maze said you were--oh my god! What the fuck--” She must have seen the wreckage, and then him. “Lucifer! Are you alright?” The hurried click of her boots on the polished floor echoes in his ears until she is kneeling beside him. “What _happened_?”

His breath whistles in his lungs and he grabs her arm with hands now bloodied by her presence. “Run,” he rasps.

She gapes at him. “What?”

But it’s too late. Blake appears behind her and flattens her to the floor with a single kick to her back. She goes down with a grunt. _Stays_ down with Blake’s boot planted firmly between her shoulders.

“Ahh, the little detective who could,” Blake purrs. In the corner of his vision Lucifer sees Chloe reach for her gun, just a fingertip away, but Blake presses harder into her back and she cries out. With his free foot, Blake unhooks and kicks the gun several feet away. He laughs, a short, harsh sound. “I don’t think so.”

Chloe snarls. “Who the _fuck_ are you? What did you do?”

“All in good time.” Blake’s eyes grow distant. “You know, I was going to test your limits, see what you can do,” he says to Lucifer. “But I think I’ve found something much more... entertaining.” 

“Don’t,” Lucifer grinds out. “Don’t, leave her alone, your quarrel is with me.”

Blake crouches and peers down at him for a moment. “You actually care about this mortal creature, don’t you? You are pathetic and _weak,_ and it’s no wonder your Father cast you out of heaven.”

_No._ He is _not_ weak, and he has one last weapon at his disposal; Chloe is face-down and unable to see it. He twists onto his back, locks eye contact with Blake. Summons the fire and brimstone and horrors of hell, of tortured souls, into his eyes and glows with the might of archangels and tormented souls in the Inferno.

Blake stares in horror just long enough to bolster the scrap of hope Lucifer desperately holds on to. “Well fuck,” he says. Lucifer’s breath catches. “You really _are_ him. I wasn’t entirely sure, though of course after the cast out of heaven line, with _that_ reaction... Black holes really do lead to other universes… I’ll have to let Michael know.”

He points to Lucifer. “Stay, or I’ll snap her neck.” He effortlessly flips Chloe over and, ignoring her precisely aimed punches and kicks, grabs her by the throat and lifts her with one hand. Her feet dangle above the floor and she grasps at Blake’s arm even as she chokes.

“Don’t touch her, you bastard!” Lucifer shouts. He tries to stand, get up and fight and rescue her, but when he moves pain stabs through his chest and he collapses flat on the floor. He can just barely see into the sunken living area, which is mostly destroyed, save for an untouched couch with the broken piano behind it.

Blake carries Chloe to the lone couch and lowers her onto it with his hand still around her throat. “Your handcuffs, detective. Where are they?” he murmurs just loud enough for Lucifer to hear.

“She can’t _breathe_ , let her _go_ ,” Lucifer hisses; it’s all the noise he can make now, everything he can say.

“Oh, I do believe you’re right.” Blake glances down at where his hand still grips Chloe’s neck. “I suppose you’ll need to answer.” He abruptly drops her, leaving her collapsed and wheezing through the darkening bruises on her skin. “Detective,” he says again. “I’m only going to ask one more time before I take them myself.”

Chloe gasps and yanks the cuffs from their place on her belt. “Sick--s’va b’ch,” she groans.

Blake doesn’t bother with a reply. He snaps the cuffs around her wrists and somehow wraps the chain around part of the piano--Lucifer can’t see how from where he lies. “Your turn to stay,” he tells her. She drops her head onto the back of the couch, arms wrenched above her head and chest heaving with the effort to breathe.

“Now for you,” Blake says to Lucifer. He picks his way back through the piles of broken glass and drywall and shards of what used to be furniture. “We’re going to have a little fun. Come with me, if you please.” Lucifer can’t lift his head, let alone his whole body, and he instead shuts his eyes.

He is hauled up by the collar; his jacket was shredded at some point in the fight, and most of the buttons are missing from the shirt anyway. Blake drags him across the room while Lucifer holds onto him with trembling hands.

Then Lucifer is flung down into the sea of glass in front of the couch. Shards slice his face and embed in his bared forearms. “Oops, was that a bad spot?” Blake kicks Lucifer in the ribs with his foot before hauling him back up. “Better stand up, then.”

Blake pauses, waiting for _something_ , and Lucifer is glad for the reprieve. His ribs are broken, he thinks, his legs are threatening to collapse underneath him, and Chloe--oh Father, _Chloe_. She’s still gasping; she can’t hold her head off the back of the couch.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Blake says at last, his voice bright with glee. “ _Detective_ , you’re going to stay there. Lucifer?” He drags Lucifer up until they are nearly nose to nose. “You’re going to fuck her.”

Lucifer can’t breathe again. He can’t move except for the pounding in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears. “What--”

“I could make one or the other of you watch.” Blake waves the hand not holding Lucifer upright. “But it’s less effort to make you hurt each other. More fun that way.” He reaches out and pulls Chloe forward by her hair.

Her eyes are wide and frightened, looking not at Lucifer but at Blake.

_Me,_ Lucifer tries to say. _It’s me you should be frightened of. I’m the one who has to hurt you_.

Lucifer shakes his head. _No no no no--_

He doesn’t realize he’s been speaking aloud until Blake viciously shakes him. “Do it yourself, or I’ll do it worse than you would, I’m sure,” Blake snaps. He’s let go of Chloe.

“I won’t,” Lucifer grits out, “I _can’t_ \--”

Blake’s eyes widen. “Oh, yes, I should’ve thought of your injuries. My apologies.” He reaches out a palm to Lucifer’s forehead and presses.

Energy flows through him, the brand of healing power until a fully-powered archangel can give. The kind of power he had before he ripped his wings off. It heals none of his outward injuries--the cuts on his face and body stay--but the broken bones and probable internal bleeding hurt no more. He can stand on his own. Finally, Lucifer is in control.

In the blink of an eye, Lucifer lunges and tackles Blake to the floor. He slams a fist into his face, twice, feels anger and power running through his veins. Archangel grace has given him strength. “I will _end_ you!” he growls. “I’m going to make sure you are punished for all eternity and far beyond that--”

Blake begins to laugh. “Oh, little Lucifer,” he taunts. “Go ahead, hit me all you want. You can’t stop me.” He raises his hand to Lucifer, and Lucifer feels more than sees the crackle of energy and scrambles back and away from Blake.

Blake cackles. “I gave it to you, I can take it back again.” He rolls his eyes, shrugs. “I mean, I could always leave you two alone. I’m sure Trixie is lonely.” His grin is wide and vicious.

Lucifer freezes in place and can do nothing but stare at Blake and then Chloe in horror.

“Lucifer--” Chloe lifts her chin and looks straight at him, lightly trembling, but her jaw is set and her eyes clear. Lucifer has never been more humbled by her staggering bravery. “--it’s alright, if he wants us to fuck it’s just. A small price to pay for my daughter’s safety, okay?”

Lucifer wants to crumble to the floor. Neither of them wanted this. It wasn’t fair.

Blake drags his gaze down Lucifer’s body, lingering for far too long, and he finally waves a flippant hand before turning his attention to Chloe. “Get rid of the suit, Luci. It’s torn up anyway, no point in keeping it.”

If this were any other time, any other place, he might shed a tear over the loss of a three thousand dollar suit. Now, a suit doesn’t compare to what he will lose. Everything he’s worked for, finally worming his way into Chloe’s affections, he himself finally learning to care for her, and now it will all be torn away because _how can she still want him_ after this.

“ _Oh_.” Blake has moved back in front of Lucifer and is eyeing him with too much interest. “How interesting, you’ve had your wings cut off.”

_Father, no_. Lucifer tries to backpedal, but the glass cuts into his feet and he can only take one or two steps. Blake follows him, eyes alert with curiosity. “Are they sensitive, I wonder?” Blake muses. He reaches out to Lucifer’s shoulder, manhandles him, and there’s nothing Lucifer can do about it. “What nasty scars, Luci. That’s just too bad.”

The first touch is like salt on an open wound, instant agony fading to throbbing phantom pain where his wings used to be. He grits his teeth and struggles to keep from making any noise whatsoever. If he shows weakness, that’s one more piece of leverage to be used against him, and he’s already in too deep.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Blake sighs. His breath brushes across Lucifer’s neck from behind, leaving him with chills and shivering finely. “I’ll even... help. And maybe when you’re done with her we can have some fun with those broken wings of yours.”

Lucifer lets himself be puppeteered to the couch; he dares not try to outmaneuver Blake for fear of not being able to protect Chloe. He can’t risk her.

He’s seen her skin bared before, that morning in the kitchen with the towel, but he can’t look at her now. Tears sting his eyes. He lowers his forehead to hers, whispering fiercely, “Please, I’m sorry, Chloe, I’m sorry--I don’t--I don’t want to--” And louner, harsher, “Don’t make me do this, please--”

“Too late, _Luci_.” Blake strokes Lucifer’s cheek, dangerously close to Chloe, and the proximity boils to anger in Lucifer’s blood right alongside the panic. “It’s you or me, and believe me, she would rather it be you.”

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Chloe murmurs. She continues in hushed little whispers until his ragged breathing has slowed and the tension marginally drained from his body. He loves her unequivocally, wants nothing to come between them and the intimate friendship they’ve built, not arguments, not sex, not _this_. She will hate him, and he cannot live with himself.

Lucifer presses their foreheads together with desperate pressure. Breathes her air.

Powerful hands yank him up with crushing strength against his jaw. “Ah ah, I don’t think so.” Blake grips Lucifer’s hair and pulls his chin up, fingers slowly training over his throat, threatening to press into it and cut off his air. “This isn’t about your little infatuation--don’t think I didn’t notice.”

_It’s not infatuation._ Lucifer tries to spit the words out, but Blake finally squeezes with his full strength, breaks skin with his nails. “Shut up,” Blake hisses. Lucifer does.

Neither of them pretends to enjoy it. Lucifer can’t even _think_ beyond _chloechloechloe_ and _no_ and _stopme_. He doesn’t try.

\--

The club’s not open tonight. Normally, this means Maze would jump at the chance to host a small _private party_ , either for her or for Lucifer (or to share), but that is clearly out of the question when Lucifer arrives. She is certain she’s never seen him run so ragged since they first arrived in Los Angeles. Clearly he wants no company tonight.

Well, except perhaps his beloved detective, judging from the significant look he casts in her direction before he heads for the stairs.

Alright, Maze will admit she’s bitter that her constant and loyal companionship with Lucifer, ages old, was replaced in just a few short months by a mere mortal. Detective Decker’s life will not span even a fraction of Lucifer’s. How is it that he has become so enthralled with her? And the worst part is that he’s not even getting sex out of it. Which she knows because she sees Linda Martin once or twice a week and makes a point to ask if Decker and her ex-husband are back together yet.

(The answer is they are working on it. Slowly. Maze gets the idea that Linda wishes they would hurry it along so she can be finished playing mediator.)

She gets busy cleaning glasses. They tend to stack up during the day as she and Lucifer drink-and-walk, and she finds rinse-soap-rinse-wipe to be calming to her mind. Not that her mind is ever calm.

Still, it’s something to do while Lucifer finishes moping for whatever reasons he has tonight. She’s so engrossed in her routine that she _almost_ misses Decker slipping in. Obviously the better part of valor would be to ignore her entirely, but that’s not fun at all.

Decker walks over and rests her elbows on the bar. “Mazikeen.”

They look at each other for a moment. Maze feels a bit of kinship with Decker after discovering they both like violence. Well, to a point--Decker likes shooting people, while Maze would rather do violence the old-fashioned way. With fists. Maybe knives.

Maze drapes halfway across the bar just enough to properly leer over Decker’s body. She’d have hit that a long time ago if she thought Lucifer wouldn’t be pissed as hell. “Well, hello detective. What brings you here?”

“Same reason I’m always here,” Decker says, looking around and pointedly ignoring Maze’s gaze. “He seemed really off earlier and totally missed taco Tuesday. I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

Maze lazily waves a hand at the elevator. “Go on up, I think he’s expecting you.” He’d certainly implied it, at least.

Decker smiles, though the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks.” She heads over to the elevator and presses the button several times. It dings, doors open, she steps on, and is soon gone from Maze’s peace and quiet.

That’s alright, then.

She finishes cleaning glasses in short order and begins to make her rounds of the club floor, making sure everything is perfect and the cleaners haven’t missed anything. The couches are perfect. Dancing platforms, tables, and poles all spotless. No fingerprints on the piano, even, and that shiny enamel is hard as fuck to get into mint condition. 

Eventually, Maze has gone over every square inch of the club. Neither Decker nor Lucifer has made an appearance. If Lucifer hadn’t made a cosmic deal over how he turned her down for drunk sex, Maze would’ve suspected the obvious, but it’s been half an hour since Decker’s arrival. Perhaps she should check on them.

Before she can head to the elevator, time slows to a stop.

“Amenadiel, not now,” she starts, spinning around.

It’s not Amenadiel.

Time stands still for one moment more before the fabric of space crumples and then explodes outward in a maelstrom. The sheer force hurls Maze into the wall of bottles, and she lands heavily on the floor in a rain of glass and alcohol.

She lies stunned. What the _fuck_ is happening.

When she staggers upright, the club has become the epicenter of a fierce whirlwind revolving around a dark vortex. Sofas and tables get caught up in the force and some are actually sucked into the hole before a figure steps into view. He--that broad form is _definitely_ a he--braces himself against empty space and says something unintelligible that is lost in the roar of the storm. Instantly, the furniture drops.

Two more figures pitch through the hole and collapse in a heap on the floor; a man and a woman.

The woman, a redhead, picks herself up off the floor and stumbles slightly. “Not the smoothest transition, am I right?”

“Nnggg,” groans the man. He gets up slower than the woman but recovers faster. “We need to move quickly. Gabriel can’t hold the portal forever.”

“Fuck you, Michael.”

“Hey!” Maze shouts. They turn as one to face her. “Who the hell are you?”

They exchange glances. Michael says, grimly, “I’m going after Lucifer. You take care of the demon.” He is through the door to the stairs faster than Maze can blink.

Oh, _hell_ no. Some, some fucking witch from who the hell knows where is not going to stand between her and her vow to protect Lucifer.

The woman advances as Maze yanks out her demon-knives, forged in the fires of hell, guaranteed to kill almost anything. This should be quick and easy.

It is _not_ easy. Maze fights harder than she has in her entire existence and still her blows bounce off and the woman’s strength rivals Amenadiel’s. (Fuck, is she dueling an angel?) The fight, and Maze is reluctant to call it that, lasts all of thirty seconds before the woman knocks the knives away and throws her onto the ground.

She presses the heel of her boot into Maze’s chest. “I didn’t know Lucifer kept company with the likes of you.”

“I’m supposed to be _protecting him_!” Maze hisses. “I’ll die before I let you touch him!”

“That can be arranged,” the woman says, and then-- “Wait, what? Protecting? Lucifer doesn’t need protection.” She sneers down at Maze. “It’s not like a little demon would do much good anyway.”

Maze bristles. According to Lucifer straight from Decker’s mouth, she is a ninja bartender who kicks ass. “Against humans and demons? I thought all you heavenly assholes knew about Lucifer’s little _mortality problem_.”

“Lucifer is a goddamn menace and definitely not having any kind of mortality problems,” the woman says. “The exact opposite, actually, Michael’s tried to kill him at least a dozen times, failed, and come off the worse for it."

“So did Amenadiel, and look how that turned out!” Maze shouts.

_Amenadiel_ , the woman mouths. “Who’s Amenadiel?”

Pause. They look at each other properly. They look at the vortex. “Holy shit,” the woman says at the same time as Maze says, “Fuck.”

\--

Underlying the terror running through Chloe’s veins boils unspeakable fury. She wants to strangle the man twisting her best friend into something he never wanted to be. She imagines this is how Lucifer feels when faced with victims of injustice. She’s so angry with Blake for reaching while keeping Lucifer wrenched away from her. Part of her just doesn’t care, the part where Chloe pretends everything is okay to save face for Lucifer, keeps her gaze steady. The part that’s going to have nightmares for months wants to shrink back and close her eyes and drown out everything around her.

Everywhere that creep touches her, her skin crawls. Lucifer, with his hands braced on either side of her shoulders, is ashen grey and hyperventilating through clenched teeth. Chloe knows from experience he could pass out and that _must not happen_.

It’s gonna be fine, we’re gonna be fine, she thinks. She presses her lips together and bites down. Keeping eye contact seems to keep Lucifer grounded, and Chloe would be lying if she claims it doesn’t do the same for her.

But just when Lucifer seems to have gotten a handle on himself, that fucking bastard draws away and gouges his fingernails into Lucifer’s back where Chloe knows those terrible scars to be.

Lucifer freezes immediately and grits his teeth, eyes glazing over unseeing, clearly struggles to not make a single sound. A strangled cry escapes anyway and it chills Chloe to the bone.

“Did we hit a nerve?” Blake murmurs. He claws down again. Lucifer literally crumples, eyes rolled upwards, until he’s held up only by Blake’s grip on his throat.

Then shit goes down all at once.

Something like a sonic boom explodes up from the floor, sending them all flying along with glass and broken plaster. The couch tips over; the piano jerks backwards and takes Chloe along with it. After the initial shock, Lucifer doesn’t hesitate, just throws himself across the few feet between them and bows over her, protects her from the implosion of the windows.

When the chaos quiets, Lucifer raises his head and twists. His face is reminiscent of the days before the warehouse with Malcolm, all barely suppressed wrath promising agonizing punishment for the guilty.

Blake rises up, stunned, from the remains of the bar. He doesn’t take more than a few cursory, infuriated steps towards them when the door to the stairwell actually explodes right off the hinges and knocks him back down again.

A man stalks through the broken doorway. He’s almost glowing with power that makes Chloe think of Lucifer’s wings when she saw them at the auction. 

Lucifer hisses above her and flinches back, dragging Chloe with him. “Stay down and don’t draw attention to yourself,” he hissed.

She tries to reply and finds she can’t. So she watches.

“Lucifer!” the man growls. It takes one long, panicked moment for Chloe to realize he isn’t talking to _her_ Lucifer, but rather the son of a bitch who did this to them. _What?_

Blake--no, Lucifer, no--

“Luci,” the man says with admirably restrained anger. “We are both leaving, right now.”

Luci. Jesus fucking Christ. Chloe cannot even.

“Oh, fuck you, Michael. Just like you to ruin everything,” ‘Luci’ sighs. He brushes himself off, eyes gleaming. “Why don’t you come over here and make me?”

Abruptly, two women appear in the corner of Chloe’s eye; they must’ve been in the shadows, just coming up from the stairs or the elevator. One of them is Maze and the other Chloe doesn’t know. “Them’s fightin’ words,” the stranger says. “We _will_ fucking make you, and when we get back, Gabriel and I will hold you down so Michael can rip your wings out.” 

Lucifer shudders above her.

The other Lucifer, Luci, barks out a laugh. “Won’t that be fun. Fine.” He holds out his wrists, crossed one over the other, and grins. “Cuff me and take me in, Michael. Oh _wait_. The only cuffs in the room are occupied.” He smirks. “Guess you’re out of luck.”

Michael doesn’t twitch. The other woman glances in Chloe’s direction and winces in sympathy but does nothing otherwise. Maze looks outraged for just a moment before her face clears, though she still stares at them.

Without any warning, Luci lunges at Michael. Michael pivots out of the way, lets Luci crash into the floor, and grabs him by the front of his shirt. “Uriel!”

Uriel steps to Michael’s side and touches them both on the shoulder. One blinding flash of light later, and the three strangers are gone, leaving only Maze, Chloe, and Lucifer.

“Holy fucking shit,” Maze says. Lucifer hauls himself off Chloe and stands, staring blankly at nothing.

Chloe tentatively pulls at the chain still restraining her to the piano; maybe she can break the piece of the piano she’s attached to. No dice. “Um, a little help here?”

Brusquely, Maze takes charge. “Lucifer, get her out of the handcuffs. I’ll be right back.” She disappears up the stairs to the actual bedroom.

Lucifer fishes for the keys in her discarded jacket and mechanically unlocks the handcuffs one side at a time. She had almost expected him to yank them off her wrists with his bare hands. By the time he’s done, Maze has reappeared and produced two blankets, one for each of them. Lucifer wraps his around his shoulders like a cape. Chloe does the same.

He won’t look at her. Chloe wants to tell him it’s okay, it’s all okay and she doesn’t hate him at all, but she doesn’t have the words. She reaches for his arm instead, but he flinches away. Scrambles backwards, horrified. “Don’t,” he whispers hoarsely. “Please, I can’t, I don’t want to hurt--” He flees.

Maze seems torn between following him and helping Chloe. “I’m sorry,” she says at last. “I should’ve been more vigilant.”

Chloe grimaces. “There wasn’t anything you could do. Go help him, I’m fine.”

Maze does.

Surely, Lucifer can’t think that she _blames_ him for all this. They didn’t have a choice. The bastard would’ve hurt Trixie, or at least hurt Chloe himself, and she’s not sure which would have been worse. God fucking dammit.

She checks all her clothes for her phone. They’re totally ruined, having been, y’know, _torn off her body_. And apparently the phone is a lost cause, too--the screen is shattered and the battery appears to have melted through the back. Goddammit.

“Maze--” Oh, right. Maze isn’t here. Nevermind, she can get it for herself. Lux has to have a landline somewhere. Sure enough, tucked away behind the bar in the one place that didn’t totally collapse at some point in the evening, lies a perfectly intact cordless phone. She dials Dan’s number from memory.

Dan’s ‘who the hell is calling me at this hour’ tone is comforting in a familiar sort of way. “‘Ello?”

“Dan, it’s me.”

“Chloe?” Dan slurs. Rustling, probably blankets. “I didn’t recognize the number. What’s up? Are you okay?”

She takes a deep breath. “Dan? I know it’s late, but I need you to bring me some clothes. I’m at Lux.”

“What? Why?” His voice is tinged with suspicion.

Chloe runs a shaking hand through her hair and clutches the blanket tighter. “I’ll explain when you get here, okay? You’ll see.”

She remembers exactly why she loves Dan so much when he doesn’t protest, answering with only “I’ll be right there” and hanging up.

Surprisingly, the elevator is intact and functioning enough to drop her at the main floor. It probably says something about her night that the havoc in the main club doesn’t faze her. She takes a seat on the stairs leading to the door to wait for Dan.

He shows up only twenty minutes later. Definitely a record considering he probably had to stop at her mom’s for an already-packed overnight bag. “Whoa--Jesus Christ.” Dan stops just above her. “What happened?”

“I have no idea.” Chloe holds out her hand without looking at him and he drops the bag into it. “I’ll be right back. Meet you at the car.” She doesn’t want him to see her like this, vulnerable and obviously injured.

Pulling on her clothes and shoes, folding the blanket, setting it on the stairs, walking out to the car--she does each numbly and methodically. She opens the door and nearly falls into the seat.

“Whoa, everything good there? You guys have a fun party, or what?” Dan jokes.

Chloe gives him her blandest look.

“Oh my god.” Dan reaches up to touch her cheek, but she can’t. It’s too much. Something on her face warns him before she protests or his hand makes contact. “I--oh my god, _Chloe_.” His voice breaks. He looks devastated. “Did he hurt you? Did Lucifer--”

“It’s a long story,” she sighs. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

“But you _will_ talk about it. Right? Chloe?”

Buckling her seatbelt takes so much effort she almost doesn’t do it. Dan’s worried, hands clenched on the wheel. She says tiredly, “Just take me home.” He does. They don’t speak for the entire drive. Not even when she gets out of the car without looking at him.

She unlocks the door and doesn’t know where she drops the bag, heading straight for Trixie’s room. She can’t wake her, it’s past midnight--but she can’t move away either. She would do anything, has done anything, to protect her daughter. Chloe chokes up just thinking about it, and now she has to settle on the edge of the bed and pull Trixie toward her.

Trixie wakes up the minute Chloe wraps her arms around, her blankets and all. “Mommy?”

Chloe buries her nose in Trixie’s hair. “Hi, baby. Just had a tough day and wanted to say goodnight before I went to bed.”

Trixie seems generally satisfied with this answer, at least until she fully opens her eyes and gets a good look at Chloe. “Mommy, are you okay?”

Her wrists are chafed red and bloody from the cuffs, from both harsh handling through Blake/Luci and from being dragged by a seven hundred pound grand piano, give or take. She’ll have to wear those stupid chunky costume bracelets her mother unironically gave her for Christmas last year. Probably have to wear a scarf, too, with the black and blue and purple bruising on her neck.

“Yeah, monkey, I’m okay.”

Let it never be said that Trixie doesn’t possess the world’s most accurate bullshit detector. She pulls one small hand from under the covers and gently pokes Chloe’s cheek. “Are you sure? Cos you don’t look okay.”

Chloe smiles even though the motion pulls at the cuts across her face. “It was just a little fight.”

“Did Lucifer take care of it? I think he likes beating up people for you,” Trixie whispers.

A growing lump tightens in her throat. “Yeah, baby. He does. He did.”

Trixie snuggles down into the blankets. “Okay.” And that’s that. Not two minutes later, Trixie’s breathing slows and deepens. 

Chloe heads to the bathroom on autopilot. Cleans the tweezers, digs the first aid kit out from under the sink. Aided by Motrin and disinfectant, she painstakingly picks out the glass and washes away the plaster and dirt imbedded in her skin. Steps into the shower. She can barely lift the bar of soap; her limbs feel like lead.

When she is finally alone, hunched over on her well-worn sofa, she clenches her fists and lets herself cry.

 

 

Act III

Lucifer refuses to speak about whatever happened. Maze can make an educated guess, though, and she can’t blame him.

He doesn’t even move from the bed for days, just lies there, curled into a ball with eyes open and unfocused. He doesn’t protest when Maze rolls him over to clean and dress his wounds. They will heal, with Decker gone, but she doesn’t want to take any chances. He remains catatonic after she wraps him in the biggest, softest blanket she can find.

On the second day, Maze sweeps up the mess in the living room and orders new glass for the windows, which arrives in several hours. Amazing what a lot of money will get you. Unfortunately, the piano and all of the furniture will also need to be replaced. She decides to leave the furniture for the time being but does put in an order for a custom piano just like the first. He’ll want it when he snaps out of his funk.

On the third day, Maze ventures downstairs. She will never admit this to anyone, but she chokes up a little and rubs fiercely at her eyes. Everything downstairs is a lost cause, all of it. The couches and tables that hadn’t been tossed across the room were damaged by pieces that had. Half the railings are missing. The bar is a total loss along with everything in it.

And the piano. Lucifer’s favorite thing about the club, the one thing that helped him relax after a bad day or too much time with Amenadiel or his stupid Father-related angst, or even after a bad session with Linda--it’s splintered into scraps. That’s both pianos now.

Maze wipes off the only table left standing and relatively unscathed and rests her head in her arms. It’s a credit to her exhaustion that she doesn’t notice Amenadiel’s arrival at all until he touches her shoulder. “Mazikeen?”

She glances up and stares blearily at him. “Oh, good. Where the hell have you been for the last three days?”

He eyes the destruction. “I was busy. What were you doing? Why the--” He waves a hand in a gesture that probably means _the shitstorm into which my brother’s den of iniquity has been transformed._

“It’s none of your business.” Maze heads to the center to survey things again, maybe find a single thing worth salvaging. “You know what,” she begins slowly, turning to Amenadiel, “I could really use your help.”

Amenadiel looks mortally offended that he be asked to engage in any kind of mental or physical labor, which is so typical asshat angel that Maze wants to punch him. “Places to go, people to see,” he says nervously.

Maze jabs a finger in the direction of the elevator. “Have you seen Lucifer? No, you haven’t. He’s been fucking catatonic on that bed in that stupid blanket for the past three days. He’s totally useless, and you’re not doing anything anyway!” She realizes she’s escalated to yelling and pauses to collect herself and take a breath. “Fine. Think of this as paying rent.”

“Paying rent?"

“Yeah, that thing that allows you to _live_ here? If you’re gonna stay you gotta work for it.”

“I thought I did,” Amenadiel says with an eyebrow waggle that looks completely ridiculous on him.

She glares. “Wrong time, bad taste. Now, get your little angel hands dirty and help me.”

Together, they pile everything into the center of the room. Two beings with super strength can move an awful lot of rubble just by themselves, so all the cleaning crews will need to do is take the shit outside and repair the walls and do a deep clean.

Which is quite a bit of work, actually. Maze sighs and makes a post on Lux’s facebook page and updates their website with an announcement that the club will be closed for the next three weeks.

\--

Chloe takes two days off, and the chief is so relieved she’s finally using her piled-up vacation days that there is no protest whatsoever. Chloe pulls Trixie out of school both days under pretext of illness. Trixie doesn’t say a thing except to occasionally sniff nonexistent snot into her perfectly clear sinuses.

They spend their time snuggled up on the couch watching movies. Chloe lets Trixie pick them, so they cycle through Disney and High School Musical and Jurassic Park, because for some reason her kid really likes terrifying dinosaur movies, and someone, probably Dan, lets her watch them. The entire time, Chloe clings to her like she’s her lifeline on a sinking boat. Trixie obliges.

Wednesday it’s Chinese takeout. Thursday, pizza. Friday, Chloe briefly considers calling herself and Trixie out sick again, but they’ve both already missed too much of Real Life. Just one more day until the weekend, anyway.

Friday night, Dan texts to ask her out to dinner. Chloe sighs and calls the babysitter. There’s no point in putting off this conversation any longer than she has to, since Dan’s just going to bug her about it until she tells him. He has a right to know.

_-Let’s get Italian-,_ Dan’s text says. He knows it’s her favorite, and there’s a hole in the wall fifteen minutes from their old house where they’ve been going on date night for years. The tortellini alfredo is to die for.  

_-OK._ -

They meet at seven-thirty, and for once, Dan’s on time. He’s got a little bunch of flowers that probably came from the local grocery store. It makes Chloe smile; he’s never been big on romantic gestures. “Thanks,” she says, grabbing his shoulders to peck him on the cheek. He still blushes like he’s in middle school, and Chloe thinks it’s the cutest thing ever.

They get all the way through ordering and appetizers before Dan sets his fork down and really looks at her. “You said--” He flounders. Probably doesn’t know how to ask about all the injuries Chloe expertly covered with makeup and a conveniently placed scarf.

“Yeah.” Chloe picks at her plate. “First off, I swear Lucifer didn’t do it. He was there, but.” Her mouth suddenly goes dry, and she has to take a gulp of water. “So, you remember that creepy guy from the case with the murder and the weird explosion, right?”

It’s funny, she thought she would burst into tears or have a panic attack if she tried to recall Tuesday night to anyone. But she doesn’t. Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact. She starts with arriving at Lux, being attacked upstairs, restrained, and that crazy jackass who forced Lucifer into acts he never would’ve done otherwise. Her injuries, she explained, were mostly from Blake. The others came from environmental damage. Not one cut or scratch was put there by Lucifer. Not a single one.

When she’s finished, Dan presses his hand to his mouth. “Oh my god.”

Their food arrives. The plates sit untouched.

“I don’t.” Chloe rubs her forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”

Dan presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And you can’t just report it to the police.”

“Yeah.” Chloe remembers the almost supernatural explosions and implosions and the flash of light before all the strangers disappeared. If she were a more religious person, she might come to some conclusions. But she doesn’t want to. So she doesn’t. “Lucifer wouldn’t want me to, anyway. Nothing we can do about it now.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything to say after that. They quietly eat their food. Chloe asks for a box because her stomach roils at the thought of eating any more tortellini. Dan scrapes the last quarter of his lasagna into the box also, a gesture of peace and solidarity. He pays for the meal, even pulls her chair out and opens the door when they’re ready to go, and Chloe hugs him for a long time in front of her car.

Eventually, she says, muffled into his coat, “I don’t blame him at all. Is that weird? Or wrong?”

Dan’s arms tighten around her. “No, it’s not. He’s your friend and that’s okay.” She can’t detect any trace of uncertainty in his voice. “You did nothing wrong. And--” he clearly struggles; “--he didn’t either. Neither of you deserved this.”

Apparently this is exactly what Chloe does and doesn’t need to hear. She buries her face in his shoulder and cries. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair,” she sobs over and over.

He rubs circles on her back and whispers nonsense into her ears, nothing substantial or even related, just random ramblings to ground her. They stand in the parking lot for what seems like an hour, maybe two--who knows--before all the tears dry up and Chloe breaks away, sniffling and wiping her nose in the crook of her elbow.

“Thank you,” she whispers. For dinner, for the comfort, for believing her where she doesn’t think anyone else would.

“No problem,” Dan says, and his eyes are a little too bright. “Call me, okay?”

She will.

She does; in two weeks, she and Trixie are finally having Taco Tuesday. (Last week she thought about beef and tomatoes and guacamole and cheese nestled in a corn shell and wanted to puke.) “Is daddy coming?” Trixie asks as she’s mashing avocados.

Chloe thinks, why the hell not. She calls him and he says he’s free. In the background, she hears him ask another detective to take over the stakeout they have planned for that night, and she smiles.

“Hey, monkey!” Dan crows when he walks in the door. Trixie leaps off the stool and into his arms, chattering excitedly about her day at school and whether that chocolate cake is really for her.

It really is. Chloe wonders how, exactly, Trixie managed to blackmail her father into bringing her a chocolate cake every time he walks in the door. She bets it’s an interesting story.

“So, how’s tacos,” Dan asks, looking over the ingredients laid out on the island.

“Good,” Chloe says. Her phone rings; she glances down and sees it’s Dr. Martin. “Hang on, I have to take this.” She leaves Dan and Trixie debating the pros and cons of guacamole versus salsa.

“Decker,” she says into the phone. Maybe it was a misdial.

It’s Linda. “Hello, detective. I know we haven’t spoken in awhile, but--” A loud exhale. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from Lucifer recently?”

The question knocks Chloe off guard. “Um, Lucifer. Uh. I guess?”

Trixie stops talking immediately and perks up. Dan’s face twists to pity.

“Well, he hasn’t been to see me in two weeks, and that’s very unusual. He always has ‘problems’--” Chloe hears the finger quotes. “--and he hasn’t called or dropped by to complain.”

Two weeks. Chloe doesn’t know how to reply. “I think he needs some space,” she finally says. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

Linda makes a soft noise. “Detective, if there’s something you need to talk about, you know my office is always open.”

“No, I’m good,” Chloe says hastily.

“Well, so long as you know.” Linda sighs. “Get in touch with Lucifer for me, will you? See if he’s alright? I’m worried.”

Chloe says, “Sure thing,” and hangs up.

“Who was that?” Trixie asks with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Just the doctor with some questions,” Chloe says, plastering on a wide smile. “Nothing to worry about.” This seems to placate Trixie for now, except she’s probably saving all the tough questions for the moment when Chloe least wants to answer them. Dan, who from the looks of it is thinking the same thing, casts her a sympathetic glance.

It comes when Chloe’s mouth is clear of all tacos and chocolate cake, leaving her with no excuse to not reply.

“Mommy, when’s Lucifer coming over?” Trixie asks. _She’s_ chewing on the very last bit of cake and talking with her mouth open.

“Er--” Chloe looks at Dan. Dan looks back at Chloe. She has no idea what to say, decides to settle with “Not for awhile, I think.”

Trixie’s face crumples. “Oh.”

“It’s not your fault,” Chloe assures her.

She looks unconvinced. “But _why_? He was supposed to come last taco Tuesday,” Trixie says stubbornly. “Why couldn’t he come tonight?”

Chloe sighs. “Because he’s avoiding me.”

“Why?”

Dammit. “Because he’s sad.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him? And make it all better?”

Chloe smiles and doesn’t feel anything at all. “He doesn’t want to see me, baby. He needs to be alone.”

\--

Lucifer abruptly startles awake to full consciousness when his whole body makes painful contact with the floor. He opens his eyes.

“Lucifer, you can’t stay in that bed for days!” Maze is standing over him. Lucifer desperately wants to tell her to go fuck herself and drown her out, but when he tries to make his lips form the words, he finds he can’t. “Yes, that’s right, you’ve been there so long you can’t actually remember how to talk,” Maze says. She hauls him to his feet and supports his entire weight straight to the bathroom. “Maybe you don’t actually need to do all the stupid little things mortals need to stay alive, but--” She drops him straight into the bathtub, which is full of water, and Lucifer finds himself scrambling to not go completely under. “--you _reek_.”

He does not reek. He’d only been lying on the bed for a few minutes at most. Maybe.

“A few minutes my ass,” Maze says. She has a bar of soap and a wash cloth. “More like a week. Minimum.”

“Shut up, Mazikeen,” he rasps. So his vocal chords do work.

She guides him to the side of the tub and kneels, scrubbing at his upper body and torso. “Don’t thank me or anything. Just doing my duty as protector to the lord of hell,” she mutters, but she digs her fingers into his head and massages deeply. Lucifer groans and leans his head back. It feels good, relaxing...

Lucifer closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s back over Chloe, only no one else is there and his eyes are hell-red and she’s screaming. It echoes in his ears, never ending; he can’t apologize or cry or pull himself from the dream--it must be a dream, he knows Chloe didn’t scream--

“--cifer, Lucifer, wake up!” 

Ice water drenches him and he splutters awake, coughing. “What--”

Maze is holding a metal bucket. She looks worried, Lucifer thinks distantly. Why is she worried? “You were dreaming,” she says quietly.

“Oh.” Lucifer grimaces and hoists himself out of the tub. He almost doesn’t have the strength, but he bats Maze’s hand away when she tries to help. “I can do it myself,” he grunts.

He towels off and is about to walk out of the bathroom when Maze stops him with a hand planted firmly in the middle of his chest. He stares down at it. What.

“You _have_ to put on clothes. I don’t care if it’s sweatpants and the worst shirt you own, I don’t want to walk in here and see you naked under a blanket.” Maze throws a pile of miscellaneous clothes at him. “Put. These. On.”

Eventually she settles him, fully clothed, on a brand-new couch in his living area. There’s a dysphoria between what he sees now and what he remembers from the fight. New windows, new furniture, a new piano--the bar is the only thing that hasn’t been redone yet.

Maze crouches down in front of him. She looks strangely unguarded with actual emotions that aren’t anger. “I can get you a drink, if you want. Promise me you won’t go downstairs. It’s not finished yet.”

He nods for lack of any other response to make. She goes away and he closes his eyes; time passes too quickly and yet too slowly before she comes back, wrapping his fingers around a small glass. He knocks it back without tasting, only feeling the burn sliding down his throat and settling in his gut.

More time passes. Amenadiel appears and tries to insult him into doing--something, anything, who knows--but Lucifer stares resolutely at whatever’s in front of him and eventually his brother gives up and goes to Maze. Everything is numb and everything hurts all at once.

The one good thing he can admit is that no one comes besides Maze and Amenadiel. No women, no men, no detectives. He takes this to mean Chloe has not told anyone about what happened. He can’t decide if this is a blessing or a curse, if he would rather be punished for his sins against her or have that night be erased from all memory.

No--he could never take that from her, no matter how much he desires to. She needs to know she’s not safe with him, but she’ll never be safe again _without_ him and the dissonance between the two has him doubled over and wordlessly keening.

His head snaps back, reminiscent of Chloe as he cried over her. He’s completely petrified. Can’t move. She will hate him and shun him and he’ll never see her again. She is--was--his best friend, his only friend, the only one who matters at all to him who isn’t obligated to associate with him.

Even if he shared her with Dan because that was _romance_ but _best friends_ were something different.

His chest feels like it’s being crushed by a trash compactor or back into a cold chest by razor-sharp nails. Is this what the humans call a heart attack? He’s immortal. Such inconveniences can’t come anywhere close to killing him. Dammit--one hand grips the arm of the sofa, the other scrabbling for a handhold somewhere in the cushions. He knows he can breathe, but his body can’t seem to take a single breath without caving in under a heavy weight.

Rinse and repeat for ages. Every time Lucifer thinks he’s finished, come to terms with what he’s done, he closes his eyes and experiences another waking terror that leaves him paralyzed with fear and guilt. An endless cycle of a restless lull, nightmares, panic.

Eventually he lies on his side and pillows his head in his arms, forcing himself to keep his eyes open in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable.

The elevator dings. Lucifer doesn’t bother looking over, just groans, “Maze, I told you, I don’t want--”

“Lucifer?” That’s not Maze. 

He jerks upright so quickly he nearly falls off the couch, wide-eyed and heart racing. It’s Trixie. Her arms are crossed over her chest, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and for just a moment Lucifer sees Chloe in her. “What?” His voice comes out rough; he clears his throat. “What are you doing here? Won’t your mother be worried?”

Trixie drops the backpack near the elevator and wanders across the room to stand in front of him. “I took the uber,” she says proudly. 

His brain is too scrambled to remember what an uber is.

“It’s like a taxi, and you call it with the internet. I figured out Mommy’s password and put it on my phone and she never noticed,” Trixie explains.

Lucifer’s not sure what to say to that, honestly.

The child’s face and posture is much too somber. “Mommy said you were sad.” She peers at him. “Have you been crying? It’s okay to cry when you’re sad.”

“No,” Lucifer says. 

“Oh.” They look at each other. 

His breath catches. “You shouldn’t be around me, child. I’m not--safe.” He buries his face in his hands to avoid looking at her. Can’t not think about what would have happened if Trixie had come up instead of her mother, if that bastard had left him and Chloe bound in the penthouse and gone to ‘keep Trixie company.’ His stomach roils and he thinks if he moves, he’s going to be sick.

Distantly, he hears Trixie say something like, “That’s too bad,” and he doesn’t have time to more or shove her away before there’s a small body wriggling her way past his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck and all his defenses crumble like a brick wall. “Hugs help when you’re sad,” Trixie says, but Lucifer is blind and deaf and unfeeling to everything except her unrelenting faith that he won’t hurt her. The constant pressure in his chest abruptly cuts off and the dam opens.

He holds her tight, drops his face onto her tiny shoulder, and weeps. Full-body sobs tear through him, his breath hitches; he can’t stop, not now, and every death and tragedy on his conscience assaults his mind. He cries for Delilah, for the man who leapt from a roof because of Lucifer’s true face, for Father Frank and Father’s unfinished plans, for Amenadiel and Maze, for himself, betrayed and forsaken. He remembers wanting to die, wishing for Amenadiel to slay him where he stood, and cries for that too. 

He sobs over Chloe, over the loss and hollowed out hole in his heart which was once consumed by her presence. 

“I _knew_ you were sad,” Trixie whispers. She doesn’t move her arms from where they’re clasped behind his head.

Lucifer turns his head so his words will be audible. “I think I’ve been sad for a long time and never had--had a proper cry.”

“Lucifer.”

Chloe. He shouldn’t be holding her child. Does it count if the child came to him first? He doesn’t know. “Fuck that bastard,” Lucifer hisses into Trixie’s shoulder. He’s taken everything from Lucifer, just like Malcolm.

“Yeah, I know.” The couch shifts as Chloe sits down. Lucifer freezes; this is where she rips his last bit of hope from him, declares him the exact source of evil everyone believes the devil to be, leaves him forever.

She slides closer and pries one hand from Trixie’s back. Lucifer cringes away, but instead of wrenching her daughter off him, she leans into his side, laying her head on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says. She winds their fingers together and he’s done.

Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back. “Why are you here?”

Chloe grips his hand tighter. “Maze, can you take her?”

“Trixie, let’s go,” Maze says. Lucifer hadn’t noticed her coming in.

“Why?”

Maze says firmly, “Because Lucifer and your mother need to talk. Come on.”

Trixie wriggles out of Lucifer’s arms and pats him gently on the cheek. “I’m gonna go play with Maze now. I think she’s gonna teach me how to throw knives, she _promised_ ,” she says conspiratorially; Chloe chokes.

“Maze won’t let anything happen to her,” Lucifer says as the co-conspirators leave the room. He desperately muddles about for a topic of conversation that won’t involve feelings now that they’ve been interrupted.

“I know.” Chloe sits upright and turns towards him. She cups his face in both hands, wipes away the tears gathering once again at the corners of his eyes, and says, “I want you to know I’m not angry with you. I never was.”

Lucifer jerks away from her gentle touch and slips to his knees on the floor in front of her. “Chloe--I’m, I’m so sorry, I don’t deserve anything from you, but please, don’t--” Don’t turn him out, leave him in the cold rejected once again. He wouldn’t survive.

Chloe grabs his hands, pulls him up into half an embrace, says, “Lucifer, I’m fine. We’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong, and even if you think you did I still forgive you.”

He has no more more tears to cry. Maybe Chloe is crying, a little, but Lucifer just clings to her and she clings back and everything slots into place.

When they finally pull away from each other, she cracks half a smile. "Hey, I mean, under the circumstances it wasn't half bad, right?"

Lucifer doesn’t know whether to laugh or start crying again, and settles for a watery hiccup. “It’s still ruined everything,” Lucifer says to her knee.

“It changes everything,” Chloe says, “but not between us, you hear me? Nothing’s ruined.” He tries to sit up and pull back but she won’t let go of him, and he can’t bring himself to force her away from him. She gently runs a hand through his hair. “I still--you’re my best friend in the entire world. Nothing’s going to change that.”

For the first time in weeks, Lucifer can breathe freely again. “And you mine,” he murmurs.

“Good,” Chloe says, and she means it.

To lighten the mood, Lucifer knocks his elbow into her calf. “Next time you’ll listen to me? When I say I don’t trust someone.” He means it to sound joking, but his voice cracks.

Chloe smiles and pats his shoulder. “So you’ll be ready to join me on the next case? Someone’s got to keep me safe, after all. Warn me about the creepy jackasses of the world.”

“It’s a deal,” Lucifer says.


End file.
